


Competing Theories of Justice

by gloss



Category: Captain America, Truth: Red White and Black
Genre: Chromatic Character, F/F, Muslim Character, ladyslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-12
Updated: 2010-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-11 17:14:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faith multitasks, and always has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Competing Theories of Justice

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Eid! Beta by G. Something of a sequel to my [Welcome in This House](http://archiveofourown.org/works/327724), though that is not required reading.

  
  
Faith is many people. She is Isaiah's loyal wife, Eli's frazzled grandma, her community's stalwart champion, a liaison to the neighborhood police public relations committee, a doctor of philosophy several times over (one earned, several awarded as honors), chair of the Black-Jewish Women's Caucus, adjunct professor of criminology at John Jay and, this academic year, visiting professor of justice at one of CUNY's more far-flung campuses.  
  
That she lives in the same city as this campus on the far side of Queens is a strange joke of municipal geography. The MTA's service between her home and campus is less than a joke and much closer to cruelty.  
  
After fajr, while the day is still new, the light pearly, she shares a cup of tea with Isaiah, checks to make sure that Eli is on his way to waking, then sets out for her three-hour commute.  
  
She does not use her laptop on the train and three buses, but stays busy filling out forms, answering correspondence, and editing her syllabi.  
  
There was no room in the budget for a copy card for her, let alone an office, so once on campus, she pays for her own photocopies, stows her satchel in the library carrel smaller than a broom closet that serves as her home base two days a week, and changes from her New Balance running shoes to sensible, square-toed low heels.  
  
She's _teaching_ ; of course she will look her best. Gym shoes have no business in the classroom, as far as she is concerned.  
  
Her first class is an awkward occasion. These things generally are, in her experience. Students prefer to be told what to do; they might complain, they might resist, but they expect authority and instruction.  
  
"This is not a joke," she tells them. "Let's discuss how the marking will take place."  
  
She leads them, gently as she can, to accept the fact that they can decide how they will be graded. Two essays and a final, or weekly journal entries, a midterm, and a take-home paper? Reading response, rotating responsibility for leading class discussion, and four mini-essays?  
  
They reach a tentative conclusion with just five minutes left.  
  
Faith noshes a bagel with mustard and cheese on her way back to the library while calling her doctor's office — "No, he doesn't need to call me back," she tells the nurse, "this is the most convenient time for me to hear my results." — and checking her email.  
  
Sometimes, she honestly believes that the only way she has made it this far in life is thanks to scheduling. She likes to say that she was multitasking before there was a word for it; both Sarah Gail and Elijah roll their eyes whenever she says this, but it is true.  
  
But all the scheduling in the world cannot prevent a glop of mustard from falling on her shirt. Faith closes her eyes, pauses and hopes for calm before daubing the worst of it off and proceeding back to her carrel.  
  
She has a little less than two hours before her next class, a stack of articles to read, and several email replies to compose. She slips off her heels and wiggles her toes, enjoying the freedom, before setting down to work.  
  
When the rap comes on the flimsy plywood door, she tells the visitor to go away without looking up.  
  
"But I have an appointment," a silky voice insists.  
  
 _Leila_. Faith has not spoken to her in years, and when she made this appointment for an interview with someone from Pacifica Radio, she had not recognized the surname. That she had forgotten the appointment entirely would be enough to rattle her in any other situation, but confronted with Leila's overwhelming presence in this tiny, narrow space, it is all Faith can do to welcome her, ask what she has been up to, and try not to stare.  
  
Leila has only recently returned to journalism; before coming on-board at WBAI, she taught in Arkansas, lived for a time with some Cherokee in Oklahoma City, and briefly attended nursing school.  
  
"You're still searching, then?" Faith asks.  
  
"And you're still Muslim." Leila looks, if anything, amused.  
  
Faith does not touch her scarf, though her fingertips itch to do so. "Yes. Faith isn't a hairstyle or skirt length, something to be discarded or easily forgotten."  
  
"No," Leila replies, eyes narrowing as she smiles, "No, you certainly are not."  
  
Faith shakes her head. Under her desktop, she grips her knees and squeezes. Finally, as Leila's grin refuses to dim, she says, "That — that was a terrible pun. Unforgivable."  
  
Leila smiles all the more widely. "Thank you. You brought it on yourself."  
  
Faith straightens her back and tips up her chin.  
  
Still smirking, Leila cocks her head. "Don't give me that look. Don't talk to me like I'm another supplicant."  
  
"Please, I —"  
  
Leila's hand, loaded with rings, flashes. "Don't play the Great Lady for me. You forget, I _know_ you."  
  
"I don't forget," Faith says and wishes the tremor out of her tone. "I recall you were quite drawn to the Great Lady."  
  
"I was a kid."  
  
"So what is your excuse now?"  
  
They regard each other for a pulse-thuddingly long time. Faith sees an angry woman, as beautiful and frustrated as ever, grown into the striking lines of her face and body. Leila once wielded her beauty like an unbalanced sword; now she _inhabits_ it.  
  
Faith would like to know what Leila sees now. What she might be, beyond an old bag in a headscarf with mustard on her shirt.  
  
Leila stands suddenly. "Come out," she says, imperiously.  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
She rolls her eyes and clucks her tongue. "Out _side_. Come outside."  
  
Faith checks her watch, then the clock on her desk. "I don't think..."  
  
"Outside, sister." Leila hands Faith her purse. "I'm not above blackmailing you."  
  
Faith does not like being caught off-guard. Even more, she does not appreciate threats, especially idle ones.  
  
Leila slides between the end of the desk and the cinderblock wall, crowding Faith against the opposite wall. Her brandy-sweet breath pools on Faith's cheek. "I still have those poems you wrote me."  
  
All Faith can do is pass a hand over her eyes —  peeakaboo, where are you? — and start to laugh. She could no more remain angry at Leila than she might blame the sun for shining. "You do not."  
  
"I do. Shall I recite some?"  
  
Faith raises her hands, palms outward. "No. Anything but that."  
  
Leila's smirk is satisfied and — Faith must be seeing things, but there is a whisper of relief in the corners of her lips. She offers Faith her arm, but while Faith might well be an old lady, she's not headed straight for Woodlawn, either. She grasps Leila's hand instead, lacing their fingers together and squeezing.  
  
This is a woman she once knew, quite literally, from the inside out. Her knowledge of Leila was _bodily_ , as we know only our most beloved family members. The curve and furrow behind Leila's ears tasted like ambergris; the soles of her feet rasped chamois-soft and glowed pink in the low lights of morning. The sweat gathered beneath her breasts at the end of a summer day clung to Faith's fingertips, smelled like shorn roses; her lips slid over her teeth nearly, but never perfectly, silently, the sound whispering and hinting what words could not capture.  
  
And now Leila is a stranger. No longer a lover, hardly a friend, but someone else.  
  
Perhaps this is fitting, this un-placeability. Leila had never occupied one identity or position for very long. She is as restless categorically as she ever was politically, emotionally, even visually.  
  
Faith tips her head against Leila's and rests there, for just a moment. Leila's hand is heavy with rings, but warm in Faith's, and as familiar as her daughter's laughter or Elijah's scowl.  
  
Here, Faith wants to say, you come, you stay, just here.  
  
She has not written poetry in years; there's never been a need, no room in the schedule.  
  
Perhaps, however, she is still a poet.

[end]


End file.
